None The Wiser
by Miss Dasti
Summary: One day Hermione finds herself bored, and Lucius finds himself curious―and they discover a blindfold makes for a hell of a catalyst.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : This sultry tale involves a lifestyle club and two people who cannot believe they're in one. It moves rather quickly, so try to keep up ;) And as always, let me know what you think!

* * *

Hermione Granger was trapped.

She was trapped in the longest end-of-day floo line that ever existed in the history of the Ministry for Magic. And worse than simply being trapped in line, she was also trapped in the absolute worst place in line a person could be trapped: with the gigantic backside of an extremely sweaty maintenance worker right in front of her, and a fidgety, huffy little witch from the DIMC right behind. The latter seemed to be under the impression that if she stood close enough to Hermione and breathed hard enough down her neck, the line would go faster.

Yes, Hermione was trapped. And it just so happened to be on a day which no one wanted to take responsibility for the climate control charms, so the Atrium was fast approaching 35 degrees.

The longer Hermione stood there between the butt and the busybody, the more it seemed to her this situation was a metaphor for her life. She was trapped in so many other ways that in line. For one, she was trapped in her current job, unable to advance due to a certain Quinton Harlash: an eighty-year-old racist who didn't care for bumptious muggleborn upstarts and who also happened to be her direct supervisor. He was extremely well-connected and infamous for cowing muggleborns out of the upper echelons of the Ministry.

And that was just one example. She was also trapped in her social life: it seemed every week she went out to the same places with the same people to drink and do the exact same things. Though she loved her friends, the tedium of the routine was beginning to make their outings feel like a chore, not something to anticipate.

And worst of all, she was trapped in an existence completely devoid of romance.

She grimaced as the memory of her last encounter flashed before her eyes. It had been over a year ago, and although the previous dates had not gone terribly well with the man, she had allowed him to take her home out of sheer desperation that perhaps, what he lacked in conversation, he made up for in the bedroom. Well, she had been mistaken: he'd finished before she had even gotten properly wet (or undressed, come to that) and then he'd left, never to speak to her again.

The whole experience had been so awful, she'd been scared off men ever since, telling herself that when the right one came along she would know and the ceaseless dry spell would at last come to an end.

Unfortunately, either her "right man" detection equipment was badly decalibrated or there simply weren't any "right men" in the wizarding UK willing to give her the time of day. And she was slowly coming to accept this as fact.

Standing there in that line, thinking about all of the different aspects of her life that she wished she could change, and how the fiery-eyed girl she used to be would never have abided such a shameful stasis, something inside her snapped.

Without a word to the hulk in front of her or the pest behind, she broke free of that awful line and made her way through the crowded room to the very back, where a floo stood open and unused. It seemed every eye in the place was turned on her, but she clenched her jaw and ignored them.

She _did_ hesitate for the tiniest second at the mantle, however, realizing just why it was abandoned: this was the floo to Knockturn Alley. Nobody in the Ministry would be caught dead using it with the Atrium so full, but Hermione found she didn't care: it was available, and the apparation point in Knockturn was close to its public floo. There was no reason why she couldn't use it.

It wasn't as if she planned on spending any time there, after all.

* * *

The floo-tender on the other side didn't even look up as Hermione came shooting into the room with more force than necessary (evidence of a poorly kept mantle). "Welcome to Knockturn," was all he said, flipping idly through his magazine (which, Hermione was horrified to see, was pornographic). "Apparation point's midway down the alley, near Loft X. Enjoy your visit."

Hermione didn't respond, mainly not wanting to attract any attention to herself; she hurried out of the shabby floo port and into the even shabbier street, nervously trying to orient herself before any of the more unsavory shoppers recognized her. Although they were fewer in number nowadays, there were still enemies at large from the War who would love to do her harm if they got her alone, and rumor had it that some of them tended to lurk around Knockturn.

 _It's fine,_ she thought, squaring her shoulders. _Nobody would dare try anything in broad daylight, and look, that Loft place is just over there. I'll just keep my head down and nothing will go wrong._

Her journey through the underbelly of wizarding London went off without a hitch until the very end, when it came time to cross in front of the establishment called Loft X to get to the alley on the other side and apparate. She was just past the opulently decorated front porch when, from out of thin air, a creature that looked like a hag only just passing as a witch leapt into Hermione's path and cried, "Such a beautiful young thing shouldn't be wandering aimlessly out and alone on a sumptuous day like this!"

Hermione nearly screamed. "Oh Merlin!" she clutched her chest. "You startled me!"

The witch ignored her "I've seen your kind before, girl, dragging yourself around in those short heels, running errands, meeting your other single friends for lunch and asking yourself why your lives are not more exciting! Wouldn't you rather take a chance today, and instead of grocery shopping, you take a moment to explore your deepest most savory desires?"

The only deep and savory thing Hermione found about the situation was the witch's breath, of which she kept getting liberal doses. Before she could form and indignant response at all of the blatant insults (as well as the gross invasion of personal space), she found her vision blocked by a roughly propounded brochure.

The front panel depicted a sensual image of two hands clutching each other, and near the top, the words "Loft X" announced itself in a calligraphic script.

"If you get tired of toting that satchel nonsense along and pretending to be your own man, you should pay us a visit," the hag suggested. "You won't regret it."

And just as inexplicably as she had arrived, the creature was gone.

It was only due to her innate sense of curiosity that Hermione didn't chuck the brochure straightaway. She had to see what she'd been accosted over―or at least get the general gist of it. So she turned the pamphlet over in her hands and began to read. The back showed a picture of a sultry fireplace and bore a list of private floos into the Loft: "for those discreet patrons who prefer the subtle entry."

With a snort she made to throw the handout into the nearest bin. She should have. This was obviously some kind of borderline illegal operation; what use did she have for something like this?

Later, she told herself what must have happened was, in her haste to get out of Knockturn, she simply couldn't find a bin in her route, and out of habit she had stuffed the leaflet into her satchel and forgot about it.

That was the only possible explanation.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy was agitated.

He'd been sitting at that same uncomfortable desk at the back of one of his many apothecaries, pouring over the ledgers for the umpteenth time, but no matter how he worked the numbers the ugly truth kept blaring out at him: this branch, along with all of the other branches he'd visited so far, was failing miserably, and the only explanation was that the anti-Death Eater boycott organized last month was actually working, and even gaining traction.

"Damn." He slammed a hand down on the desktop and startled the weedy little teller manning shop nearby. There was nothing else for it. He would have to do some major restructuring―displace the Malfoy name from any public endeavors with shell corporations and accept whatever losses necessary.

It also wouldn't hurt to branch out a little into new markets. Investing in something unique may not hurt at this stage. Regrettably Lucius had been all but exiled from the wizarding world after the War, and he found himself woefully out of the loop.

"You, there," he addressed the teller, who straightened up like a soldier called to attention, "which venue is growing in popularity at present?"

The scrawny boy turned magenta. "Well," he said slowly, "there's that―that Loft X everyone's been going mental over. They're always booked up, people've been selling their firstborns just to get in. Very popular business, sir."

Lucius frowned. "I see… and what exactly _is_ this business?"

If the boy had been red before, it was nothing compared to now. "Well, it's… it's sort of… here," he reached into the breast pocket of his robe and pulled out a battered brochure. "This should clarify a little bit, sir."

Lucius took a moment to peruse the literature. From what he gathered, Loft X was a lifestyle club specialized in anonymous sex―whether by means of Blackout Blindfolds, appearance-altering charms or even polyjuice (for the right price), X's main goal was to create an experience entirely free of relationship. You could have sex with _anyone_ ―you could have sex with your elderly neighbor and neither of you may know, though according to the brochure, patrons could apply parameters of personal preference when being assigned companions.

"Is this legal?" Lucius flipped the leaflet and scanned the back. "Ah, it must be, if the Ministry has approved private floo connections for them… I suppose it doesn't matter what your business provides so long as you pay the appropriate tax, no?"

"I suppose not, sir," the teller responded, with a sycophantic laugh.

Lucius turned to the middle of the brochure and scanned the list of services offered. Loft X was not the sort of business in which a Malfoy should invest, but it might prove to be worth it if what the teller claimed was true about its rising popularity. In any case, more research would need to be conducted before he made a final judgement call…

"So this is in Knockturn, then," he muttered to himself.

The teller guffawed again. "'Course it is," he said, "they wouldn't let the likes of the Loft in Diagon, would they?"

Lucius frowned at him. It seemed the boy had mistaken his idle conversation for friendliness. This must be rectified.

"There will be some changes here," he said, pocketing the leaflet and heading for the door. "I will be in touch with your manager about this apothecary and how we are to proceed in light of those ledgers. I am astonished he neglected to come in today; I find that speaks volumes of the interested he takes in his work."

And he left the teller feeling sorry for his boss―but more sorry that Malfoy had stolen his brochure and all the floo addresses on the back.

* * *

Hermione was faced with a predicament.

On the one hand, she had a specific set of standards away from which she never deviated. For instance, she had never slept with a man on a first or even second date, much less in any situation wherein she wasn't even allowed to know his identity. And she had no intention of breaking habits now.

On the other hand, her pussy was currently wringing the life out of her dildo and her fingers were going a million miles an hour over her rock-hard clit, and she wasn't any closer to coming than she'd been five minutes ago. No matter what she did, it was as if her body was rebelling against her, refusing to give her the release she so needed as some twisted punishment for her spending another night alone.

She had to face the troublesome truth: she needed a man. She'd been pining for physical intimacy for longer than she cared think about. And she knew it was lazy and sleazy and any number of unsavory adjectives, going the route of Loft X, but trapped as she was in her mundane life, she was seriously considering it as her best alternative to another few miserable dates and another round of shoddy sex.

At least with the Loft, she wouldn't need to waste her time making small talk with men who tended not to understand her anyway, and if the sex ended up terrible, she could always leave and pretend it never happened. And the world would be none the wiser.

She thought it through again. She'd be able to enforce her preferences so there was no threat of her getting paired with a morbidly obese, century-old lecher (unless of course he was using polyjuice, in which case he would at least look good while he slithered all over her). Toys and certain other avenues of play were also provided to any patron who asked: from fluffy handcuffs to riding crops to dog masks, they had it all.

And the main rule―the central pillar to the business―was the preservation of anonymity. It was very cleverly done, actually. It is never disclosed to either partner whose appearance had been changed, so one could never know if they were with a natural or altered partner. And the brochure made it clear that there would be no speaking in the bedrooms unless both parties consented; otherwise Babel charms were mandatory (and much preferred over _Silencio_ , as they still allowed for moaning and other such nonverbal pursuits). Things could slip out between the sheets, after all…

Hermione kept going back to linger over one package in particular. It was very simple: a single bedroom, a single partner, a Blackout Blindfold, and the air of total mystery. All she would have to do is lie there, blindfolded, and allow a stranger to have his way with her.

Terrifying. _So_ many things could go wrong. And yet, when she thought about it, her pussy clenched around her dildo and _at last_ and she came in sighing bliss…

She couldn't say what, but something about it had drawn her in.

So against her better judgement, blaming it on the half-bottle of chardonnay she'd consumed earlier that evening, Hermione resolved to floo Loft X that upcoming Friday night.

It was either that or dust her library.

* * *

Lucius sat with a book on Ancient Runes propped open on his armrest, a tumbler of fine scotch in one hand, his rigid member in the other, and both eyes set in the middle-distance―thinking.

He was defeated. The evening had begun well enough: he'd almost finished his book and had every intention of moving on to the next advanced text that night. The scotch had come out of his private drinks cabinet and he'd dipped into it in order to calm his nerves; it was of course sublime, though he found himself curiously disinterested.

You see, he had a problem. And that problem happened to be twitching eagerly in his palm, despite the fact that he had serviced it four times already since arriving home was beginning to develop a pain in his wrist from all of the back-and-fourth.

He was… in need of company. It seemed he could not slake this particular thirst on his own. And he blamed that blasted pamphlet for filling his head with images of _activities_ , of which he would never be a part. He had no interest in anonymous sex, being a vain man who didn't like the sound of changing his appearance but also being quite distinctive looking―it was simply impossible for him to walk into a room and not be identified on the spot.

However.

There was… _one_ fantasy he kept coming back to. It was not a terribly elaborate one like the dozens of others X had to offer: just a room and a blindfold. A Blackout Blindfold, to be precise: impossible to shift or see past once tied, and equally impossible to remove until its time limit was up. So there would be no peeking, as it were, and his anonymity could be preserved.

Should he… sample… the services offered by this prospective investment, then? See what it had to offer before considering it a viable business opportunity? Because if he so intended to do such a preposterous thing, this Blackout fantasy would be the one he wanted. After all, it required no effort or risk on his part: _he_ didn't have to lie there blind and oblivious. And he did _so_ love the idea of complete control, his partner totally unaware of his next move…

Lucius' cock jumped insistently in his palm, hot as cherry steel, refusing to be ignored. With an irritated sigh he put aside his scotch, leaned back in his plush leather lounger and began stroking himself to thoughts of strange young women reaching for him in lustful disorientation…

* * *

Hermione made the floo.

She felt as if she were in a trance: this was so incredibly unlike anything she had ever done, and she knew if she stopped to analyze it too closely, she'd end up back home again and she couldn't bear to spend another Friday night reorganizing her book collection. This was a risk―a break from the norm. And it fulfilled something in her that she hadn't felt since her schooldays: the thrill of adventure.

She arrived through one of the discreet floos listed in the brochure. It led to a room that, other than the rather sultry décor, wasn't much different from a normal receptionist area. The young woman behind the counter (rather prettier than the hag who had flagged Hermione down in the street) greeted her warmly.

"Welcome to Loft X." She rose and extended a clipboard to Hermione. "All new members must fill out the preliminary paperwork in order to make an appointment… but for the famous War heroine, I'm sure we can make an exception and slip you in, no appointment necessary." She winked.

Hermione, caught slightly off guard, responded, "Oh―that's very gracious of you, thank you."

"And keep in mind," the woman added, "you're welcome to sign all of this with an 'X'―anonymity is the name of the game here." She gave a tinkling laugh.

The paperwork was fairly straightforward, considering the subject matter. Protective charms were obligatory and cast over each bed. Time limits were strict (to accommodate those patrons using polyjuice). Each room came equipped with a panic pullcord, though according to the fine print, they had never been used.

And she had to sign an acknowledgement that, due to the nature of the institution, she could end up paired with _anyone_ inside her specifications, and she _must_ understand this reality. With a roll of her eyes she marked the signature line with an _X_ , wondering just how many men had ended up in bed with their wife's sister in this place to warrant such a measure. Judging by the number of times this disclaimer was mentioned, she was beginning to suspect quite a few.

Eventually it came time to set limits on her partner. Blushing, Hermione checked single partner only, as well as the boxes beside "athletic," "attractive" and "in prime" (fearing another minute-long tumble and thinking that perhaps someone more mature would make a better lover). She felt rather vapid as she did so, thinking to herself that some of these ought to have been obvious. She neglected to select age, assuming that any man who fell under her other parameters would do well enough.

She also ticked off "no talking," having never been fond of dirty talk in the first place and curious to see how the encounter would progress without communication. Lastly, she chose the Blackout as her fantasy.

The receptionist took the paperwork back and, after settling a payment (Hermione grimaced at the expense) and establishing that she, Hermione, wanted to be the one blindfolded, the receptionist led her to a side room and instructed her to remove all of her clothes, put on the robe offered to her and step back out once she was ready.

Hermione was shivering, almost jumping out of her skin as she pulled off her clothes and donned her silken purple robe and pulled out her wand. The receptionist made her realize that she hadn't opted to do anything to hide her own identity, and if word got back to the Ministry that she was frequenting sex clubs, she could kiss any potential future career goodbye.

She stood there, wand raised, thinking of what she might do. She didn't want to alter herself too much, and honestly she didn't feel she needed to: the blindfold would cover most of her face, and like Harry's scar and glasses, her defining features were her distinctive bookwormish way of dressing and, of course, her hair. Anytime she changed clothes or did anything to tame her wild mane, all identifiability went out the window, even with her closest friends. She didn't have to worry about her outfit here, but perhaps…

With a wave of her wand, the wild ringlets grew much lighter in color, almost to a shade of strawberry blonde. She waved her wand again (this one took two tries) and the curls relaxed somewhat, coming to rest in soft puddles on her shoulders. Hermione checked the mirror in the dressing room and was shocked to discover just how different she looked―almost like a completely new woman.

 _What am I doing?_ At this point the thought wasn't a real question so much as her own doubt speaking to her from the back of her mind where she'd locked it away. She knew _exactly_ what she was doing; she simply couldn't believe she was going through with it.

She could leave, now―and nobody would know. But that was just it, wasn't it? Nobody would know if she _didn't_ leave, either. And despite the nerves crawling up and down her back, there was no denying the tingling that had begun between her legs.

She _wanted_ to try this. And she could do so without fear of judgement. That was the charm of the place, wasn't it? The secrecy…

When Hermione emerged from the dressing room, the receptionist didn't even blink at her change in appearance. She merely gestured for Hermione to follow her and led her down a long series of halls until finally she stopped at a door marked "87."

During the journey, Hermione realized she couldn't hear a single thing, and figured Silencing charms on all of the rooms was just another part of the standard operating procedures of the Loft. Some people could get terribly… vulgar during sex, and others couldn't properly let loose unless they felt they couldn't be heard. It made perfect sense, really.

With a flourish the receptionist opened Door 87. Inside, the walls were draped with royal blue velvet and the only furniture was a large four-poster set against the back wall. A door near the bed led to the in-suite bath, but otherwise, there was nothing else in the room.

"Make yourself comfortable," the woman said, taking Hermione by the elbow and leading her over to the bed. Hermione allowed herself to be drug around only because her rapidly climbing nerves would not permit her to do anything but stare like a deer caught up in traffic.

The woman beckoned for Hermione to sit on the bed, and then (when Hermione did so hesitantly) she drew a long, black silken handkerchief out of her pocket.

"Now hold still…" In a second, the handkerchief was wrapped over Hermione's eyes, blocking her vision completely. "There. Can you see anything?"

Hermione shook her head. "Is this a Blackout Blindfold, then?"

She could hear the smile in the woman's voice. "It is, and it won't come off until your hour's over or you use the pullcord, or the safety word we've designated for today: puffskein. But don't worry about any of that: this is a place of pleasure and relaxation." Footsteps, and a door opening; the receptionist said from the threshold, "Lie back and relax… your partner will be in shortly." Then the door closed, and all was silent.

* * *

 _Life is paperwork_ , Lucius mused, ticking off 'fit' under his partner's body type and finishing off the whole lot of it with the Blackout fantasy. He handed all the nonsense back to his own receptionist―a boy with a curiously orange complexion―and was instructed to disrobe in a side-room that afforded little privacy other than an insubstantial curtain.

It was with great reluctance that Lucius did so. He was not a shy man by any means, and he certainly didn't feel self-conscious about his body, it was only… that receptionist boy seemed rather intensely interested in him, and while the attention was flattering, and the unnecessary touching of his shoulder and arm was tolerable, Lucius did not want anyone ogling him covertly unless _he_ invited them to.

Inside the flimsy changing room Lucius waved his wand over his hair and shortened it down to a business cut, perfectly coiffed. The wizarding world was a claustrophobic place, and he was well-known for his hair. It wouldn't do for the blindfolded woman to identify him just by touching his head.

Satisfied with his spellwork, he proceeded to undress, keeping an eye out for that receptionist as he did so.

Once robed and back in reception, the boy informed Lucius that the next available partner for a Blackout had a no-speaking stipulation, and would he still be interested or did he want to return when another opened up that allowed talk? Lucius' initial reaction was to reject the idea, but then curiosity got the better of him. He wondered―could charm a woman with just his touch? There was only one way to find out, and now would be the ideal time…

He accepted, and the boy led him through a maze of halls (trying as often as possible to steer him along with a hand on his back or elbow, something Lucius found exceptionally vexing) until at last, they stopped in front of a door labeled "87" near the end of one of the endless halls.

"Your partner's waiting inside," the boy said, waggling his eyebrows at Lucius (bringing on a mild wave of nausea). "Just go right in… and enjoy the fantasy."

Thank Merlin he turned and left after that: Lucius was unable to resist rolling his eyes. Now that he was alone, standing in front of the door behind which a strange woman awaited him, Lucius realized this would be the first time he would be engaging in such casual sex for nearly six months. How strange… he'd been so preoccupied, he hadn't even noticed his neglected libido.

Drawing himself up, he had the urge to check his reflection, even knowing his partner would be blindfolded. He shook the impulse and, as quietly as possible, turned the doorknob, and let himself in.

* * *

 **A/N** : What could be behind Door Number 87? Please let me know what you think so far! Your reviews are what keep me writing!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** : Be warned, the story _really_ earns its M in this chapter. We're wasting no time with this one.

* * *

As it turned out, beyond Door 87 was an extraordinarily bizarre fever dream.

At first Lucius didn't recognize the woman lying blindfolded on the bed with her robe drawn tightly around her, and had merely focused on closing the door as quietly as possible, curious to observe her while she still thought she was alone.

It took him about two seconds of watching her for the electric-shock of recognition to hit him.

That was Hermione Granger. That woman on the bed of a sex club waiting for him to fuck her was one-third of the Golden Trio and next in line for Deputy Head of the Department of Law Enforcement. She'd made some vague attempt to change her hair but it did nothing to disguise her real identity―that was absolutely _her_.

 _Or at least,_ he thought, _someone polyjuiced as her._ The possibility took the edge off of his shock. _Yes, much more likely an imposter than Miss Never-Amiss_. Moving on silent feet to the end of the bed in an attempt to get a better look, he smiled to himself, thinking, _My, my, I'm sure the uppity little mudblood would be furious to know a sex club in Knockturn is using her likeness to entertain its patrons_ …

The more he looked her over, the more he realized she was actually quite easy on the eye. Her skin was a gentle bronze, the sort of shade that came only with a natural olive undertone and some incidental exposure to the sun. She was small woman, in fact she probably couldn't top eight stone soaking wet, and her features were… delicate. The transformed ringlets of her hair cascaded down over her shoulders in lovely loops, but he couldn't help but find them jarring; her normal hair, though far wilder, had a certain… earthy charm that suited her.

He daresay she might even be described as beautiful… though it had never occurred to him to apply such an adjective to the obnoxious little twat before.

As he watched, she looked around, as if listening for approaching feet―then sighed and slumped back into the pillows piled up against the headboard, clearly both nervous and bored. The way she'd tossed herself back had opened her robe somewhat, revealing the shadow between her breasts and the slight curve beneath the left.

Lucius zeroed in on the flesh like a wolf scenting blood, but he was not yet aroused. This manufactured situation was strange enough that he wasn't sure how to proceed: the fact that his would-be partner was Hermione Granger (imposter or otherwise) had thrown everything out of kilter. He couldn't very well jump into bed with a woman who might possibly hate him more than anything, and would raise hell should she discover the identity of her companion... could he?

The endless disclaimers suddenly seemed rather understated now.

Granger sighed again, and Lucius froze, his pulse increasing rapidly as she undid the sash of her robe. "Well," she muttered to herself, "if he's not going to show up…" and in a casual movement she tossed it open and revealed _everything_.

* * *

Unlike the Ministry Atrium, someone had gone to great pains here to ensure the temperature in the room was ideal. Hermione arched her spine and sunk down into the luxurious pillows, sighing to herself and thinking _They really ought to have warned me about the wait…_

She allowed her hands to wander over her body, thrumming over her nipples and then, once she'd teased them to hardness, allowed her dominant hand to slide down between her legs and rest there, leisurely rubbing herself.

She thought she could hear breathing nearby, but when she paused to listen there was nothing but silence all around. Languidly, she let her fingers draw herself open, settling the tip of her index and middle fingers on either side of the nub of her clit.

She was not yet aroused; the excitement of venturing into the Loft had dissipated, and the wetness she'd experienced earlier when she'd changed into her robe hardly slicked over her inner lips.

Merlin's pants, this was going to take _forever_ …

* * *

Whatever misgivings or second thoughts or moral dilemmas Lucius had been experiencing before were curiously absent now, no doubt robbed of the necessary bloodflow to sustain them.

He was hypnotized by the woman spread out before him. Her breasts were impeccable, full yet somehow still quite pert, the dusky pink nipples sitting high on the giving flesh―and below, her waist tapered at perfect angles to her hips, the bones of which he could just make out in soft rounded ridges. Between them his eyes were riveted onto the well-kept summit of her long legs, currently pulled open by her fingertips as she touched herself…

Was there some sort of internal argument he was supposed to be worrying over? He couldn't recall… all that seemed to matter now was how unimpressed her pussy appeared to be with the proceedings, deprived as it was, perhaps, of a male's touch… It looked as if it might refuse to react just on principle until it was given what was due…

And oh, he could provide what was due, all right… no doubt about that…

* * *

Hermione was just settling in for a long, tiresome wank when suddenly she _did_ hear something: someone very close to the foot of the bed cleared his throat.

She nearly screamed aloud, reaching for her robe and fumbling blindly to cover herself. "Oh Merlin," she gasped, "Is―is somebody there?" Then, remembering she'd marked "no speaking" on her form, added: "If someone's there, tap the bedpost twice."

Punctually, there came two distinct taps, just as demanded.

Hermione swallowed hard. She wanted to ask how long he'd been there, but couldn't find a simple way to do so, and anyway, did it really matter? Wasn't this why she was here?

Only now that she _was_ here, she had no idea what to do. He'd just scared her to death, which certainly didn't improve the mood, and there didn't seem to be a proper segue from what just happened to torrid sex. Hermione sat there, utterly stymied.

There was a depression in the bed and Hermione suddenly realized the man was sitting very close to her now. A scent wafted over to her―faint but distinctly masculine cologne, not unpleasant, in fact quite the contrary. She tried not to freeze up, wondering if she ought not yank the pullcord and call everything off right now, her nerves were going haywire―but to her shock, the mystery man reached for her _hand_ of all things, taking it in his own, much larger one. The hand he'd chosen was the one she'd just been using on herself, and she felt him steer it again towards her sex, opening up her palm (which had clenched a little in fear) so to place her fingertips over herself once again.

"You―" Hermione swallowed hard; her throat was very dry. "You want me to… to go on?"

Without warning, there was a set of lips on her―on her cheek, pressing soft and light and brief as if to answer affirmatively, _yes_. They were gone before she even had a chance to flinch, and the large hand that was currently holding her own began to puppeteer her fingers in gentle circles over her clit, as if to guide her back to self-consummation.

Hesitantly, Hermione began touching herself again, and as she did so the large hand withdrew to slide up her body, moving slowly and firmly over her skin as if the man wanted to commit it to memory. He caressed her breast and the feel of his palm over her stiff nipple brought a gasp to her lips and a rush of wetness to her fingertips.

A second hand came to join the first. He lingered at her breasts for some time, weighing them both in either hand, then taking a nipple and squeezing it rather tightly. The pain made her jump, but it also sent ripples of ecstasy to her belly, which clenched in response. The mystery lips were back: they'd latched themselves onto the tweaked nipple to soothe it with gentle little strokes of a pointed tongue.

In the absence of her eyesight, Hermione became acutely aware of the body halfway on the bed next to her, and the parts of him currently applying themselves to her. She could tell his lower lip was slightly fuller than the top, though neither were thin; she could feel rings on his hand, though the left ring finger was conspicuously naked; and when he sucked her nipple harder than before, sending another jolt to her belly, she dared reach out to gain purchase on his head, her fingers slipping on the silky strands of his hair.

Inexplicably, she had begun to relax into his ministrations, to _enjoy_ herself, almost as if reassured by the few small gestures he'd made to offer her back some control.

The mouth removed itself from her nipple, and there was a moment of dead space where Hermione realized they were face-to-face, and there was literally nothing they could do that wasn't physical: she couldn't see his expression and he couldn't speak.

She could feel the heat of him close in before those lips found her ear, slipping that tongue in briefly, then mouthing and licking the ridge of flesh until she was squirming and gasping and almost-but-not-quite moaning beside him. Her hand was drenched in arousal and she'd worked herself close to orgasm now―she wondered, strangely for the first time (and rather dumbly), if they were going to have sex. Though they were engaging eagerly in foreplay it still seemed strange to her that he might, at some point, be inside her.

He was on the bed with her now, and she could feel those hands insistently brushing aside her robe; there was a soft _whoosh_ as it went flying to the ground, quickly followed by a second, slightly heavier noise. Blearily, she realized she was now naked and blindfolded in a room with an equally naked stranger. And she was keen to see what he would do next.

* * *

Lucius was in agony. He had never been so patient before in his life. His body was taut and every inch of him ached with need; his cock was so hard it was painful and had thus far gone completely neglected.

The girl was spread out on the deep blue bedspread, flushed and breathing as if she had just sprinted a mile; her hand was still tending to her now-sopping pussy, and the smell of her arousal was driving him mad.

He watched as she massaged her clit in a quick, circular motion and realized she was going to steal an orgasm from him. So he reached down and brushed her hand aside, taking her sex in his palm and stroking his fingers along the outer lips. She squirmed; he knew it must've been terribly frustrating, providing her just enough stimulation for pleasure but neglecting to move her closer to the edge. He toyed with her for a moment until finally she tried to reach down and touch herself again―which he simply would not allow.

He smiled at the look of total vexation on her face and decided to take pity on the poor girl. Removing his hand (and grasping hers as she attempted to move back in), he slid down her body and pressed a kiss to the soft spot just above her cleft.

This made her freeze. He glanced up and saw she was completely rigid, facing the wall with her lips slightly parted, every fiber of her primed for his next move.

 _Hmm._ Lucius glanced over the awkward angle of their bodies. _Some rearrangement is in order._ And he crawled fully on top of her, taking hold of both her wrists as he went. Ignoring the startled motion she made, he positioned her down into the cushions so she was propped up, then―releasing her wrists―he took hold of her knees, pushing them up and out, opening her up to him completely.

He could see the blush forming over her cheeks and neck, and laughed slightly, charmed despite himself. Until that point he had been completely silent: now the girl latched onto the sound like she'd never heard another human being before, which resulted in him having to push her back down onto the pillows once again.

With her legs open for him and her torso finally easing back, he returned to the joining of her thighs and placed a second kiss to the top of her clit. She squirmed, and he took hold of her hips, pinning them down as he slid his tongue down around the hooded nub, which was now so hard it felt like a tiny gem under his touch; he insinuated the pointed tip of his tongue beneath its protective layer and gave it a nudge.

She cried out in anguish and he withdrew, grinning. Ah, she was so very close. He dropped his mouth to her sodden entrance and pressed parted lips to the hot center of her, sliding his tongue as far inside of her as it would go. She nearly bucked out of his hands as he proceeded to leisurely eat her out, spending as much time teasing her as he did driving her further towards ecstasy.

When the dam finally broke, the girl arched off the bed and nearly ripped herself out of his hands, and the sounds she made were nothing if not exquisite; a gush of wetness surged from her and slid down Lucius' chin, and he desperately tried to consume as much of her sweet release as possible. He was surprised―and rather smug―to find her come lasted longer than was usual. Eventually, however, her thrashing ceased and she slumped down into the dark velvets, completely spent.

Lucius allowed her to recover. When at last she seemed able to function again, she breathed, "This would be the perfect time to take off this stupid thing," gesturing at the blindfold. "I'm dying to see you."

Lucius chuckled. Again, the girl reacted as if she'd never heard another human voice before, and stared in his direction for a long moment. Then she got up, reaching out to him. "Here," she said, feeling for his arms, taking him by the elbows and turning them around, " _you_ lie back now."

Curious to see what she had in mind, Lucius settled back into the cushions and watched as Hermione reached out cautiously to touch his shoulders. From there her hands wandered up, skimming the sides of his neck, feeling over his ears, spending rather more time than necessary in his hair―then, tentatively, touching along his jawline, his cheekbones, his eyebrows―then her fingertips ghosted over his lips, and she flinched when his tongue darted out to swipe at them.

She gave him a reproachful look from behind the blindfold and he realized just how much he was enjoying her. When out of her element, she wasn't nearly so annoying as he remembered. She resumed her exploration, tracing his aquiline nose, his eyelids, and Lucius genuinely wondered what image of him she was panting in her mind's eye. The Portrait of Sabartes sprang suddenly to mind, and he chuckled again, watching with some satisfaction as she smiled in response.

"You've got a lovely laugh," she remarked, her fingertips reaching out to stroke his lips briefly again. "If only I knew what was so funny…"

After awhile her hands meandered from his head to his chest, feeling over the firm pectorals, stroking the soft hairs between them and following them down to the ridges of his stomach. "Well, they certainly stick to the parameters here," she muttered to herself, feeling over his abdominals with her eyebrows raised high enough to be seen over the blindfold. Her fingers followed the line of hair down further―then, with the tiniest bit of hesitation, she moved down yet further, and her hand connected with the base of his cock.

Now it was Lucius' turn to flinch. She felt around the base of him, her eyebrows reappearing over the blindfold, then―at long last―she wrapped him fully in her small fist and stroked him from root to tip.

Lucius let out a hiss and closed his eyes. He was at a point in his arousal now where any sort of prolonged foreplay threatened to undo him. She stroked the full length of him again, and again, he hissed, tossing his head to the side.

She stroked him several more times, growing more confident with each pass over him until he couldn't take it anymore: he reared up and seized her, pressing his lips to hers for the first time.

She jumped at the sudden change but melted into his embrace almost immediately, returning his kiss with surprising enthusiasm. She buried her hands in his hair and pulled him close, and he found himself swept away in what was undoubtedly the most honestly passionate kiss he'd experienced in years―the one unfortunate side-effect being that she'd abandoned his cock.

Using her arms to maneuver her around, he pushed her, once again, back into the pillows in order to climb on top of her. Their lips parted briefly as he pulled back to stroke a hand down her face, then down her arm to her hand, which he placed around his cock in a silent invitation.

He wanted her. That was evident. Now it was up to her to give herself over to him.

* * *

Even without the use of her vision, Hermione had discovered her partner was no run-of-the-mill bloke. She still hadn't a clue what he looked like, but she knew he had fine features―patrician, she imagined. And that _hair_. It was the silkiest hair she'd ever touched. And those _lips_. Or rather, what he could do with them…

Yes, here was a man in control of himself and in great possession of his own sensuality, who also understood some amount of human psychology, having eased her carefully from a state of near-petrification to this wanton point. She was sorely regretting choosing the Blackout as her fantasy now―she wished more than anything that she could see him.

But their time was not yet up. After some fumbling around, Hermione gripped his jutting member in her hand and marveled, once again, at its size. She massaged her palm over the head one last time―relishing the noise he made―and then pulled him down to nestle in her sopping folds.

"All right," she breathed, lying back to align their faces once again, "I'm ready."

He responded with a kiss, firm and lustful, nipping her softly as he drew back.

Then he was easing inside of her, and she was caught off guard both by the surrealism of the moment, being entered by a virtual shadow, as well as the wonderful way he was filling her up so entirely. Never had she been so full―it brought a gasp to her lips and she dug her nails into the mystery man's shoulders, unaware if she was hurting him or not.

"Oh, wow," was all he let her get out before he began to move, after which point _she_ may as well have had a Babel charm on her. No, the magnificent friction between them permitted only moans and gasps and the occasional entreaty to Merlin and his pants. In contrast, her companion was silent, save for the occasional gasp and groan that at least proved he was also relishing the experience.

Though she'd resented it earlier, the blindfold had much to do with how wildly Hermione was now bucking and clinging to her partner. Unable to see, all she could do was _feel_ her way through this lovemaking, and the result was an experience unlike any other she had felt before. The sensory overload was counterintuitive and thus she hadn't prepared herself for it. Every inch of his thick member sliding past the tight ring of her pussy was blazing in her awareness, and the delicious stretch of his cockhead as he would occasionally threaten to pull free of her drove her absolutely _mad_.

In no time at all it seemed, she was coming once again, and despite the blindfold she found she could see pinpricks of light twinkling in spirals in front of her eyes. As before, her orgasm seemed to carry on past the norm, kept alive by the continued plunging of her mystery partner.

Once she had come, the man within her changed tactics: where before he had moved at a steady pace, now he seemed to be pursuing his own pleasure, taking her slowly and then escalating to increasingly quick thrusts and then stopping abruptly, only to start over again the next moment. He carried on like this for some time (time during which Hermione experienced yet another orgasm, this one a fluttering release of the sweetest heat) she felt her partner's back straighten and his pitching against her grew hard and heavy; his breath began to come in sharp bursts and the exact moment it happened, Hermione knew he was coming: he buried himself as deeply as possible into her heat and his heavy cock flexed as if with a life of its own, expanding inside her and pulling another flutter from her thoroughly overworked sex.

Though she couldn't see him, she felt him sit back on his haunches, as if reluctant to rest any weight on her; despite her better judgement and thinking it seemed a bit desperate of her, she reached up, took ahold of his toned forearms and pulled him down to lay on her, if only for a moment. He resisted at first, but after a moment he relaxed into her, his arms sliding under her and his face nuzzling into the crook of her neck while his cock still occasionally twitched inside her, always met with a spasm of her own. It occurred to Hermione that within a few days, no time at all really, she'd gone from celibate workaholic to lying in a bed in Knockturn, sharing the most intimate of lover's embraces with a complete stranger she couldn't even see.

The idea should have scared her. It should have made her realize she was on some kind of downward spiral and she ought to book a therapy session. But it didn't. It was impossible to be scared now: she'd just had the best sex of her life, and her orgasms had permeated the very makeup of her being, suffusing her with a profound sense of relaxation. In this afterglow, nothing could touch her.

The mystery man who had brought her such gratification was shifting, his lips trailing up the side of her face to her own; she kissed him, and there they remained, languidly tangling tongues and tasting one another as if they had all of the minutes and hours in the world together. Hermione loved the way he kissed her… as if he'd known her forever and knew exactly how to connect with her…

There was a beeping somewhere off to the left, and suddenly a sly female voice was speaking: "Parting is such sweet sorrow, but I'm afraid your time is over. Please exit your room. We hope your every fantasy was fulfilled."

* * *

 _Son of a bitch!_ Lucius glowered up at the ceiling from whence the female voice had come. He wasn't sure what measures the staff had in place to usher their patrons out of the room once the time limit was reached, and he didn't particularly want to find out.

But he also didn't think he could pull out of the sublime heat of the woman beneath him. He didn't want to climb off her yielding young body. All he wanted to do was go on tasting and teasing her until his body was ready for another go-round, which it very nearly was already. He wanted to continue fucking that tight little cunt until he couldn't physically lift himself up.

Perhaps he was getting old. Physically the evidence was scarce, but mentally… well, a younger version of himself would have had no trouble whatsoever abandoning a woman unceremoniously in a bed without a second thought. Then again, had he not done so with many of his previous partners since the divorce? What about this girl made him… want to stay?

Lucius spent so much time mulling this over that he barely realized the beeping had started up again, and was steadily getting louder. When it had reached a pitch that was generally reserved for fire alarms, he was forced to draw himself away from the woman and crawl off the bed in search of his robe. At this, it died down again, but remained low in the background as a standing threat.

"I still can't get this off," he heard Granger mutter on the bed, and he smiled to himself, pulling his robe on and reaching for hers. She jumped a little when he laid it over her shoulders, and she turned blindly to him, smiling. "Thank you."

The natural "you're welcome" stuck in his mouth, thanks to the Babel, and he had to settle for stroking his fingertips over her ridiculous hair. A blush coloured her cheeks, and he took a moment to realize just how bizarre it was that Hermione Granger (or her likeness, anyway) was giving him such a dazzling smile. And to think, he had never even glanced her over before this moment… never realized just what a beauty she was, nor thought about what it might be like to have her…

Bizarre, indeed…

The alarm was starting up again, perhaps warning that the blindfold would soon drop, and with a last look into her tousled, blushing, swollen-lipped face, he turned and left the room. He did not look back.

* * *

Hermione heard the door shut behind the mystery man, and as if on cue, the alarm dropped back to a whisper, and Blackout blindfold fell away. She blinked unsteadily and rubbed her eyes, trying to adjust to the soft lightening of the room. When at last she felt comfortable enough to look around, she took in the rumpled bedclothes, the robe draped over her shoulders and, between her legs, the pure white cum slicking the entrance of her sex.

A shiver ran over her at the sight, and she reached down, drawing a finger through the viscous liquid and rubbing it between her fingers. Everywhere the smell of man pervaded: he was on the bedclothes and all over her skin and in her hair. And she'd never even set eyes on him, nor heard the sound of his voice.

All she had was the memory of his touch, his smell, and his laughter.

Once again, it should have frightened her, but strangely enough the thought brought on another burst of arousal between her legs.

She knew she would be returning to Loft X very soon. And the first thing she would ask is whether she could request the same partner over again.

* * *

 **A/N:** Is there such a thing as too much sex in a story? I think I'm approaching the limit because the next chapter's no less smutty (also: I know I obsess over Lucius, I'm sorry, but I didn't bother to curb that bad habit in the next chapter either).

Please leave a review if you enjoyed this!


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm sorry ma'am, but due to our privacy policy, requesting the same partner is simply impossible. If he frequents Loft X often, there is a chance you could be paired with him at random again." The receptionist (whose name Hermione determined was Felice) gave her a regretful smile.

Inwardly, Hermione pouted; outwardly she waved a hand. "I thought as much. That's fine―may I see your brochure again? I was thinking about trying something different this time."

Perhaps it would be good for her to continue trying new things? After all, the more she thought about her encounter with the mystery man (and she thought about it quite often) the more she suspected he was an employee, planted in order to ensure repeat customers.

She wasn't sure how she felt about this.

But she was half a mind to turn the tables and have her _partner_ be blindfolded this time around. It would at least give her most of the control over the proceedings, and she didn't feel quite ready for the Loft's more extreme fantasies.

"When can I schedule something like this?" Hermione asked Felice, who pulled out a schedule and perused the columns.

"There are no men who have shown interest in that fantasy at this time," Felice said, "but if you prefer we can pen you in for next week, and make it known the fantasy is available. And if a man is interested you two can proceed from there."

Hermione had another inner-pout. "That sounds fine."

* * *

Lucius Malfoy bought Loft X. It had taken some finagling, but he was now the proud owner of a sex club in Knockturn Alley. And if anyone found out, what little respect the Malfoy name still clung to would be gone.

But he was not concerned with that. As was the bent of the very wealthy, once Lucius found something he liked, he tended to pursue it obsessively and without regard to cost until he could have it again, and again, and again―ad nauseam.

And what he wanted was that Granger look-alike. He knew for a certainty that she couldn't be the actual Hermione Granger, who was simply too uptight for such base places as sex clubs, but it _had_ been her body, her voice, and the woman impersonating her (or perhaps simply looking very much like her) had been… very good in the sack.

He'd gone back to the Loft to request her again, but the orange lad in reception informed him that unfortunately, requesting the same partner over again was against policy. Lucius had then informed him that he was now the _owner_ of the entire establishment, and that ought to clear up any issues with the policy, so could he please set up a meeting with his previous partner now?

Shockingly, the boy had persevered. At least until Lucius suggested there was a fat raise in store for anyone who cleared this up expediently. And the amount of said raise went up until the boy caved and revealed that the woman would be returning to the Loft the following week, this time for the same fantasy―only swapped. And he could put down Lucius as her partner, _if_ he was willing to wear the blindfold.

Lucius had him book the appointment, but later began to feel some regret. He was concerned that thefalseGranger might identify him and reject him on account of his reputation. Being branded the most hated war criminal in the wizarding world tended not to drop knickers so much as tie them in knots; he'd felt the stigma the instant he'd left the courtroom a dubiously free man.

Though he knew he shouldn't concern himself with the opinions of random women, the thought of leaving himself so vulnerable to her― _blindfolded,_ for Merlin's sake―filled him with anxiety. It was one thing for him to approach this lookalike when she hadn't known; what would happen when their roles were reversed?

And then he remembered her perfect little snatch and how he couldn't sleep at night for wanting it, and he knew he was doomed if he didn't try.

* * *

Tin the middle of her tedius workday, Hermione received an unexpected owl. Too eager to take it outside, she opened the little scroll in her lap, right there at her desk, and devoured the text: someone was interested in her fantasy and had agreed to join her.

Had she not been surrounded by a hundred stuffy bureaucrats in the bowels of the ministry, she would've squealed. As before, the nerves returned, and she realized she'd come to view excursions into the Loft very much like first dates. First _blind_ dates, as it were. With obvious differences.

* * *

If Hermione ever did anything for herself nowadays (barring of course all of this new activity at the Loft) it was her once-weekly trip to Flourish and Blotts every Wednesday evening. Normally she just browsed the new releases, but this week she had a particular book in mind: an Ancient Runes text that had been backordered for months. She was dying to get her hands on it.

But this Wednesday, she'd been called in to help replenish the Ministry's Tincture Repositories, and had spent the entire day brewing potion after acrid potion, the fumes of which had seeped into her clothes and turned her hair into something resembling a Russian thistle.

Normally such work went to the most junior Ministry staff, but Mr. Harlash had volunteered her, claiming it would be the best possible use of her time. She left work two hours late.

The book order had come in that morning, and she knew such a popular text was bound to sell out quickly. Going in so late as she was, she feared there wouldn't be any left when she arrived―but luck was on her side today: she found the very last copy sitting alone on the shelf as if waiting for her.

Hardly able to believe her good fortune, she snatched it up.

Suddenly, a drawling voice interjected from behind her: "You weren't planning on purchasing that, were you?"

She spun around and found herself face-to-face with Lucius Malfoy. Though there was no mistaking that voice―nor that chilly visage―he'd obviously spent some time trying to disguise himself to avoid the public's general distaste for him: his clothes were of a shockingly Muggle style and he'd concealed his hair with a hat.

Obviously he'd been focusing on the book, because when she turned he seemed to recognize her for the first time. An odd look came over him, and his mouth opened as if he might say something else, but he just stood there, lips parted, as if he couldn't quite believe she was real.

Her mood soured; she tucked the book under her arm. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy. I had been."

He blinked out of his trance; his eyes narrowed. "That is unfortunate indeed, Miss Granger. That book is the very reason I stepped into this shop today."

"I'm sorry there isn't another one for you," she sniffed, trying to edge her way around him.

He didn't budge. "Yes, I'm sorry too," he purred, casually placing a hand on the shelf beside them, blocking her way. "Sorry you have it plastered to your side like that, and now it will most likely adopt that perfume of burning garbage you're wearing."

Hermione's jaw dropped. She'd been so eager to get the book, she hadn't gone home to shower. Never mind the smell―which she knew must've been horrible―she couldn't imagine the state of her _hair_.

"This book is mine, Malfoy," she snapped at him. "Move aside or I'll call for help."

"Oh I'm certain you would," he growled, leaning in close as he did when aiming to intimidate. "I came here to purchase that book, and I intend to do so."

He was close enough now that Hermione caught a whiff of his cologne. It was obviously some sort of insanely expensive brand: she'd never smelled anything like it on any of her male friends.

She _had_ , however, smelled it before. Of that she was certain.

The look on her face must've been something to behold, because Malfoy's expression went from haughty to just a little concerned. "Miss Granger―?"

"Here." She thumped the book into his chest. "Take it."

And she pushed past him and practically _ran_ out of the shop.

* * *

Lucius watched the girl flee the shop as if the building were on fire. He glanced down at the book―wrinkling his nose at the lingering odor―and decided it was still worth the purchase: he'd simply have the house-elves apply themselves to removing the smell.

Smugly, he took his prize to the counter, grateful that he only had to deal with such an irritating and possibly unhinged little mudblood once in a blue moon… and rather delighted that he'd be fucking her likeness in a few short days.

* * *

The fateful evening had come.

So many times over the days leading up to it, Hermione thought about cancelling. The receptionist said there was a chance she could be paired with the same partner; at the time it had filled Hermione with anticipation.

Now it filled her with dread.

Because now she knew the possible identity of her partner. She knew there was a chance―a very real possibility―that she had fucked Lucius Malfoy.

How could she possibly live with herself? Sex with _Lucius Malfoy!_ She wanted to scream, not the smallest reason being it had been the most erotic experience of her life and she had straightaway attempted to jump back into bed with him. If he was her mystery man, she didn't know what she was going to do, but it probably involved picking up a drinking habit.

Of course, she tried to apply some logic to the maddness. Malfoy might simply wear the same cologne as her mystery man. It must be this, because there could be no way the attentive, sensual stranger she'd slept with last week was _Lucius Malfoy._

When it came time to make her decision, she'd calmed down and told herself she likely would get a new partner this time, and whether or not she'd accidentally slept with the devil was irrelevant to this next encounter.

No―this time, there would be no mystery. She'd know exactly what she was getting.

With that in mind, she began to feel excited again. She arrived at the Loft nearly fifteen minutes early, and after donning her robe she nervously attempted to comb out her hair in the dressing room mirror, even knowing her partner wouldn't be able to appreciate it.

Felice had explained there'd be a brief wait as her partner settled into the designated bedroom. Three minutes into it and Hermione couldn't sit still. _How long could it possibly take to clime on a bed and strap a bit of cloth to your face?!_

As she sat squirming impatiently she debated whether or not she ought to transfigure her hair again―maybe get it fully straight this time. But she caught herself with her wand halfway raised: the point of this was that she didn't need to make changes for her partner. Now, she could be herself.

* * *

Lucius didn't like the idea of the orange receptionist blindfolding him with little more than a bit of silk between them, but the boy seemed to understand boundaries now that he, Lucius, owned the place. The payraise can't have hurt either.

Blackouts were certainly made for comfort: the satiny cloth felt cool and light over his eyes. But he also couldn't see a damn thing and there was no easing that particular discomfort.

"It'll come off when your time is up," the receptionist said, creeping back out of the room. "May all your fantasies be fulfilled."

 _I'm going to have them change that slogan…_ Curious, Lucius tested the blindfold to see if it would slip or the knot would give. But it was as if the blasted thing was glued to his skin.

Suddenly he was struck by a horrible oversight: what if the girl arrived without a disguise, or in one that wasn't Hermione Granger? He'd taken a liking to that specific illusion, and it was this he wanted back. But to his despair he knew there was nothing he could do―only hope Granger was the girl's preferred disguise and, if it wasn't, and she happened to be ugly, then at least the blindfold would protect him.

* * *

At long last, Felice beckoned. It was time.

Hermione had to slow herself down to keep pace with the receptionist as she was being led through the halls. A part of her was terrified again―what if she didn't find her partner attractive? How did one politely turn down a blindfolded man?

"Here we are." Felice stopped at Door 53; Hermione straightened her robe and ran her fingers through her hair one last time. "He's waiting inside." And with that, Felice turned and made her way back to reception.

Hermione took a deep breath, set her shoulders, and entered Door 53―into the closest thing she'd ever come to psychosis.

This room was draped in velvets of the deepest red, and sitting in the middle of the opulent bed in the center of the room was a blindfolded Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione stopped in the doorway, her stomach dropping down into her toes. He turned his head in the direction of the door and despite the black cover over his eyes, he seemed to be looking directly at her.

The silence billowed and expanded out to something truly painful. Hermione couldn't believe what she was seeing. He was leaning back against the headboard, long legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded loosely over his chest, and his distinctive hair hung in a plait over his shoulder―the picture of leisure. She stared at his face; he seemed to be waiting for her to make the first move.

As if that was going to happen.

After some time he spoke. "Are you going to come in, or go back out?"

She would know that voice anywhere, having heard it so recently, but it was lacking something now―ah yes: condescension. Rather, he sounded tense, perhaps impatient for her to make her move, whatever it might be.

This was her chance to disappear. Protected by her anonymity from any sort of backlash, she could walk out the door and never return to Loft X again. She'd now been paired with Lucius Malfoy at least once; was it so outlandish this might not be the first time? Suddenly her two-men-one-cologne theory seemed flimsy at best.

They really hadn't been bluffing when they'd stressed that your partner might be _anyone_.

As she stood there, paralyzed, she examined the man in the bed. It seemed he'd reached his prime sometime during his early 40s and decided to stay there. His face, noble in every way with its finely carved planes and edges, was curiously absent of wrinkles, though if Hermione remembered anything about him there were a few lines beside his slate-gray eyes under that blindfold. He was pale as alabaster against the red duvet and now that she was looking properly, he might not have been as relaxed as she initially thought: there was tension in his broad shoulders that belied his nerves.

As she stood there in the doorway, watching her nemesis wait on her, she realized two very astounding things.

Firstly, Lucius Malfoy was a man of striking good looks. She'd never given the bigoted old arse a second glance except out of distaste, so she'd never noticed his appearance (or at least, never really let herself notice). But it was true. He was beautiful, and had they not shared a history, Hermione realized she would've been very happy to find the likes of him on the other side of Door 53.

Secondly, there was a chance he didn't know that Hermione Granger, a muggleborn witch and the perpetual thorn in his side, was currently his would-be sex partner. But that raised the question: hadn't he known last time? Surely he hadn't been fooled by her blondeness then―and if he hadn't been that meant he'd known who she was, and still chosen not only to proceed with sex, but engage in a few remarkably intimate acts with her. Her. A muggleborn. Someone he hated…

Drowning in questions that demanded answers, she knew she needed to find out for certain whether or not he'd been on the other side of the blindfold last time. She had to know the cologne wasn't just a coincidence.

And she wouldn't find out just standing in the threshold.

So she stepped into the room, and shut the door behind her.

* * *

 **A/N** : This is actually the first half of a gigantic chapter I had to split in two. The second half is finished and will be put up day after tomorrow. If you're getting fed up with all this exposition, don't worry: things get much more action-based _very_ soon ;)

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	4. Chapter 4

Lucius would never admit to feeling anxious, but at the sound of the door closing behind the girl, the nerves he refused to acknowledge dissipated instantly, and the air of languor he'd put on became genuine.

Well, almost. There was still a chance his little copycat had forgone her charming veneer…

He spoke in the girl's direction. "I thought perhaps you wouldn't stay."

"I saw," came the response. It seemed she'd forgone the no-speech stipulation now that the tables were turned, and thank Merlin: he'd recognize that voice anywhere as Granger's, having just gotten a dose of it days ago; it was the much-needed reassurance he needed that she'd chosen the same disguise again.

Now he could properly relax.

He extended an arm and beckoned with a finger. "Come here."

There was silence for so long that he began to suspect she knew how to cast a Muffliato, and had just rendered him deaf as well as blind. Adding to his sensory deprivation was the very last thing he fancied, exposed as he already was, and his temper had just begun to flare when she tossed a single word at him: "Undress."

He froze, cocking his head. Then he smiled, recalling that Granger was infamously bossy, and thinking perhaps the girl was getting into her role. _I suppose I_ am _in the submissive position this time,_ he thought. _I can't ever recall being submissive before, but it could be enjoyable… and is this not the locale for new experiences?_

With a shake of his head, he undid the sash of his robe, pulling his arms out of the wide sleeves and tossing the garment aside.

He was starting to truly hate the blindfold. He was completely missing her reaction―did she like what she saw? He was dying for a glimpse of her expression. The silence she so favored trailed on, and eventually he decided to take a leaf from her book and let a hand trail down to touch himself.

"No."

He paused again, and felt a twang of annoyance. He considered going ahead anyway, nevermind what she said, but then he supposed, this was the game they were playing, was it not? This was her fantasy. And surely if she didn't want him touching himself, perhaps _she_ would be doing all of the touching, then?

So he did as she ordered, drawing his hand back from his cock. Interestingly, though he'd barely grazed himself, he was now fully erect, as if her challenge had turned him on more so than any physical contact. Interesting…

"Undo your braid."

Now he was confused. _This is somehow leading to sex, is it not?_ In a few quick movements he'd taken out the neat plait and let the long, silky strands flow over his shoulders. "Really diving into your roll, aren't you?" he hummed.

She stepped a little closer, nearly within arm's reach now if he had to guess. "Place your hands down on the bed," came the next order, but now there was a touch of nervousness; he suspected she was getting a little intimidated the closer she came. Perhaps she wasn't so used to bossing about the likes of him…

He chuckled, keeping his arms folded. "I think that's rather unfair," he drawled. "How will I touch you then?" eventually he figured he would do as she asked; he didn't want the game to end just yet, after all. But for now he was curious to see what she'd do when confronted with a little resistance.

At the sound of his laughter, he sensed that she'd gone rigid. Again he wished he could see her reaction to his show of defiance (damn blindfold) but then she spoke. "You can touch me when I say. For now, place your hands on the bed."

He made an appeasing gesture―palms up―then placed them down at his sides as she asked.

She crept even closer, and with his other four senses heightened Lucius could hear her taking deep breaths―whether to calm herself or because she was enjoying his cologne, he hadn't the faintest clue.

Without warning, small hands reached out of the nether and burrowed into his hair. He almost jerked away in surprise: it had been the last thing he'd expected. Her fingers carded through the strands, pulling slightly but not painfully, then massaging his scalp with her fingertips until he found himself leaning into her hands like some outsized cat.

If he could, he would have purred.

"You're my mystery partner." She spoke without preamble. "From last time, when I was blindfolded. You're him."

He rolled his eyes under the cloth. "And what gave it away, my dear?"

"The smell of your skin under your cologne… that's impossible to fake without advanced magic… and your laugh―I remember it from before. And the feel of your hair. Nobody has hair like this, even if you shorten it."

He would have slow-clapped if not for her previous order to keep his hands down.

"Did you pull strings to get into this appointment with me?" she fired off suddenly.

He smiled. "If I said 'yes,' would you go on massaging me? That feels divine." He paused. "And how would you know I'm not also using polyjuice?"

There was a long, _long_ pause. Longer, almost, than any of the ones before. He had no idea what she was thinking―perhaps she hadn't known he'd realized she was an imposter? Was the girl daft?

"I suppose there's one way to tell," she said slowly. "For me, anyway."

Small hands became fists in his hair, and she pulled him forward and―hesitating briefly, no doubt still intimidated―she pressed her lips to his. He returned her kiss immediately, and there it was: further irrevocable proof for her list. One could always tell a kisser by their form, and Lucius understood he had a very good form indeed.

* * *

For some reason the kiss triggered a gale of emotions in Hermione. There was no way around it now: she _had_ slept with Lucius Malfoy. And what was more, she had loved it. She'd even had dreams about her mystery man, and fantasized about their encounter every waking moment since that night; she'd been infatuated with a shadow. Knowing his identity should have ruined it for her… but if she was being honest with herself, it wasn't terribly surprising that Malfoy was capable of such… artistry. The man was as sexual as they came.

She was also the tiniest bit flattered that he'd done what she couldn't and brought them back together. Evidently he felt it was worth his time and effort to have her again. He'd even acquiesced to her terms, and she could tell he had some serious issues with placing himself in her hands. It was almost endearing.

But any positive feelings she may have had towards him were quickly squashed by his last question.

 _How would you know I'm not also using polyjuice?_

 _Also?_ Was the man completely insane? _Also using polyjuice…_ did he not really believe she was herself? Did he think she was some sort of―of fraud masquerading as Hermione for sex play? And when he'd first laid eyes on her last time, he just―what? Decided he liked what he saw but couldn't accept that he was attracted to _Hermione Granger_ , so he bypassed his own prejudices and massive ego with some wild assumptions? Really, what woman would go parading about as _her?_

As she thought about it, however, it wasn't too far-fetched. Since the War she'd become a very famous witch, consistently in the public eye… was it so impossible that women would choose to impersonate her in their fantasies? How different was it from, say, Ginny, who inspired droves of women to dye their hair bright red every Harpy match? No doubt some of those women pretended to be Ginny behind closed doors, too…

Hermione felt both complimented and slightly violated at the idea that there might be people cavorting about in her skin, but much stranger things existed in the realm of sexual recreation, and it _did_ explain the question that had been burning her from the start: why Malfoy hadn't run screaming from the room when he'd walked in and seen it was her.

It also explained how he could show such open attraction to her now, but such distain for her at the bookstore. It must act as some sort of loophole for him, she thought, shaking her head. He can't treat the actual me like a human, but he'll go out of his way to shag my doppelganger…

And she should have been angry. She really ought to have been. She should have wanted to slap him and flounce out of there full of righteous indignation.

Instead, she was caught up in a great deluge of lust.

One thing was certain: Malfoy wanted her. This formidable, Apollonian man wanted her―badly. And looking into his striking face, she finally admitted her own escalating lust over him, unbelievable though it was. She wanted him too, and his strange delusion allowed them to interact without the interference of his own prejudice or the ugliness of their pasts… they could be purely carnal without repercussions.

And she was tempted to play along.

Mind, the whole thing was insane, but it also made sense. And she couldn't complain too loudly, given how much she'd already benefitted and how badly she wanted him inside her again…

Now, how to proceed. He was laid out before like a delectable feast she could consume at will, but she wanted to keep control of the situation, and even channeling the bossiest part of herself she was not quite comfortable ordering him around yet. Still, he'd seemed to like it well enough…

She thought back to his first action when he'd been in charge, and turned her attention on his rigid cock.

"Hands on the bed," she reminded him.

An eyebrow ticked up, but nodded.

She climbed onto the bed, straddling his legs, and watched as his lips parted and his hands fisted into the bedclothes, as if already sensing what she was going to do. She reached out and grasped his length and a tingle ran up her arm at the familiar weight; she remembered the pleasure it had brought her, and felt a glittering wave of arousal between her legs.

Slowly, she lowered her mouth and pressed her parted lips to his hip-bone.

He puffed out a breath and squirmed beneath her. "Don't move," she warned him.

"So domineering," he muttered, but nevertheless stilled. "Perhaps you should have selected a more… leatherbound fantasy. Obviously you take to being on top, so to speak…"

She blushed and ignored the insinuations, taking him in both hands now and relishing the hardness and the strong pulse of his need; she ran a thumb over the head, catching the dew already dripping from him and glossing it over the corona. He was making good on his promise to remain still, though his knuckles were white in the blankets; she rewarded him by pressing a small kiss to the vee under the head.

"Merlin's sake, witch," he gritted out.

Smiling at his distress, she took the head of him into her mouth and sucked. She found herself liking the taste: salty from the precum, and a hint of the eucalyptus soap he must use in the shower. She sucked again, harder, gathering his foreskin from where it had been pulled aft and sliding her tongue under it to flick his vee. She got an answering hiss from the headboard. He must've been dying to buck into her; she had to admire his restraint.

Deciding he'd been tortured enough just then, she began to blow him in earnest. And it quickly became a messy affair. The fact that he was blindfolded allowed her to go at him with far more reckless abandon than if he'd been watching: she needn't have worried if her face was slick with saliva or if she looked ridiculous, she could try whatever she liked and received immediate results in the form of the beautiful noises he made.

Being blind and restricting his movements seemed to have an effect on his noise level. Last time he'd been mostly stoic. Now, unable to thrash or thrust or take hold of her and fuck her at will, a litany of gasps, low moans, muttered swearwords and short nonsensical phrases let her know precisely how approving he was. When she pulled him so far back into her throat that she could lick his balls, he announced _"Where have you been hiding all of these years?"_ which nearly made her choke up with laughter.

When he seemed to be getting close, she let him pop out of her mouth and lurch, throbbing, against his lower abdomen, wet and still so full of need.

His respondent groan was not one of approval.

She crawled farther up his body until she was straddling his hips, and after steadying herself by splaying her hands on his finely formed chest, she breathed, "Okay… you can touch me now. But don't try to put yourself inside me."

She was very surprised when first thing he reached for was her hair, almost as if to mimic her actions from earlier. Delicately he pet the wild curls, careful not to snag or tangle; a smile darted over his mouth, but before she could ask what exactly he was doing his hands had moved on to lightly brush over her face, as if reacquainting himself with the image of her. And not seconds later he was at her breasts, lazily circling her nipples with his thumbs.

She felt the corresponding tingle in her snatch and leaned into him, allowing him to play and pinch and rub until she felt close to soreness. Then she had an idea. "Sit back," she said, "and open your legs."

Her wish was his command: he leaned up against the pillows and opened himself to her. And she turned around and leaned back against him, stiffly at first, but as his hands moved over her in reassuring strokes she relaxed and let her body drape itself over him.

She didn't need to command him now: somehow he knew what she wanted. Taking her legs and placing them on the outsides of his, he pulled her wide, and his hand found quick purchase in her pussy, parting its gleaming lips and anointing his fingers with her slickness. Another moment and he'd shunted two fingers deep up inside.

" _Oh,_ that feels good," she moaned, collapsing against him, rendered boneless by his hand. She felt around behind her and wove her hand into his hair again, drawing his head down and kissing him deeply as he worked her to the edge, strumming something hot and needy inside her while maintaining a firm, circular massage over her clit.

In no time at all, she was undone. _"Oh Merlin, mmm oh yes!"_

She had stiffened as the pleasure took her, but now dropped back onto him again like a ragdoll. He was digging into her lower back and she knew he needed his own release, so - despite feeling as if she were weighed down with lead - she forced herself to sit up and face him. Forging words (she didn't think she could formulate anything coherent just then) she positioned him so he was nearly prone, pulling his legs together so she could straddle him, and―with her back still to him―sunk gradually down onto his bursting cock.

He gasped as she took him in, groaned as the last of his considerable length vanished inside―but the slowness was obviously killing him: as soon as he was fully ensconced, he seized her hips and propelled her vigorously up and down upon him.

And Hermione, too wrapped up in the glorious singing between her legs to care about control, let him drive her over his cock as he pleased.

He had been close when they'd begun, but he still managed to rouse a last sweet unraveling from her before grinding her down against his pelvis and binding them together with several hot, thick shots of his cum. Sitting backwards on him had changed the angles of their fucking, and the experience had been worth it―her only regret was missing the ecstasy on his face when he finally lost control.

The pair of them wilted down into the bedclothes as one. Hermione regretfully let him slip out of her so she could curl up against him, forgetting for a moment who exactly it was she was holding―who she'd just made love to.

And he _allowed_ her to cuddle him, even draping an arm around her (though that might have been to prevent his circulation getting cut off); she felt him burrow his face into her wild hair and something odd stirred in her chest.

"You do the bossy bit quite well," he remarked, words muffled by her curls.

She smiled wryly. "So I've been told."

"What's your name?"

She hesitated. "Call me anything you want."

That seemed to displease him, but he went on, "Very well… And why is it that you chose Miss Granger as your disguise?"

She wondered if she ought to convince him she was the _actual_ Hermione. All she needed to do was mention their run-in at the bookstore. But things might get out of hand, and fighting his delusions while naked and clinging to his body didn't sound like the best strategy for breaking it to him.

That, and he wouldn't sleep with her again.

 _No reason to lie outright,_ she thought. _I'll just… avoid the whole truth_.

"Well, Hermione Granger's always the last person anyone would expect here," she said at last.

Lucius hummed. "That is certainly true. And I see―or that is to say, I feel you left her hair intact this time. I much prefer it this way. Why the initial change?"

"Have to keep them guessing," she tossed out flippantly. This is going to explode in my face.

Lucius put on a lovely pout. "Well, if I might make a request, I should like you to keep her appearance―and keep it unaltered―in our future encounters."

The bizarreness of the conversation was starting to creep in on her, but she found herself asking, "Oh? And why should I do that? You fancy 'Miss Granger,' do you?"

He grinned in her vague direction. "Of course I do. It is not my intention to be cruel, but you mustknow I only brought us together in the hopes of revisiting this illusion― and well, you yourself chose her for your costume. You must be familiar with her charms." Pause. "Have I offended you?"

 _He… did he just admit to fancying me? And did he say I have 'appeals'?_ Hermione couldn't stop herself: "No, not―not offended―and I _do_ know her, erm, appeals, but not from your perspective. So please, enlighten me."

Lucius tilted his head. "You want me to talk about another woman while we're lying in bed together?"

"It's hardly normal circumstances," Hermione rushed. "Honestly, I don't mind."

He fell silent, seeming to gather his thoughts. "She and I have… an unfortunate history," he murmured. "Suffice it to say we'll never share a civil cup of tea, much less a bed. The enmity is strong between us and for good reason: she believes I'm a monster and her meddling and her insolent little attitude irritates me to no end. Recently we nearly made a scene in public over a bloody book! But when I came here, when I walked through that door and saw _you_ , and I coaxed you to open yourself to me and you were so eager to have me…"

He paused. "It's… intriguing. I enjoy the little fiction: being with her, without having to fight with her. It makes me believe if she and I did not lead such intractable lives… something like this is possible."

Hermione lay beside Lucius Malfoy and listened to him talk about her as if she wasn't there, and couldn't seem to quite believe what she was hearing. _He is so… insane_ , she realized, looking up into the smooth, highborn face. She touched his jaw and he gently leaned into her fingertips. _Well, as mad as he is, I'm madder to go along with it._

From above came the sly female voice, and the beeping began to sound―their time was up.

"Meet with me again," Lucius purred, stroking his fingertips up the slope of her back. "Like this, as you are now. I can have it arranged, ask after me and it will be done. Meet with me and let's leave these damned blindfolds behind―there are far more interesting toys to play with, and it's high time I chose our fantasy."

Hermione spent all of three seconds considering. "Yes. Tomorrow night?"

He chuckled, and she realized she was beginning to love the sound. "Of course, kit… Tomorrow night."

* * *

 **A/N** **:** Sorry for delaying this - I wanted to let ch3 breathe a bit, get some feedback on it before hurrying on. There might've been something I needed to change/add!  
Anyway, let me know how you think this chapter compares ;)


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